House of Sin
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: Olivia Potter was doing well for herself. She was in medical school, a year away from securing a pediatrician residency, and happily living the life she never thought she would get to have. Then she received a letter from Mexico, filled with adoption records and a contact request, and her whole world was flipped right on it's head. Father!Miguel. Fem!Harry/Nestor. Strong M
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE: CONTACT REQUEST.**

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Olivia Potter, better known as Ollie to her friends, groaned as she rolled over in bed, swinging her arm out in a sweeping arch to bat at the infuriating screech that had disturbed her rather peaceful sleep. Blissful silence reigned once more and, softly, she drifted back under like a feather left to free-fall.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep. _

Cursing, Olivia squinted in the dark, eyeing the alarm clock with distaste before she reached over and patted around for her glasses on the nightstand. Kicking the sheets off, still half asleep, glasses sitting wonky on her face, the blurry, flashing red numbers of the alarm clock became clear.

7.43am.

"Fuck!"

Shooting up from bed, Olivia went dashing for the bathroom, snatching up whatever clothing she had laying around on her mad rush, nearly tripping over the half open pile of textbooks she had left stacked on the floor.

The books toppled, sending papers, pages and notes scattering across the floor, her chicken scratch handwriting staring tauntingly back. Olivia had no time to look back, or care. She had exactly fifteen minutes to get washed, brush her teeth, get, at least partially, clothed and race across campus to make it in time for her 8.00am anatomy lecture in the main hall.

The woes of being a medical student; late nights cramming, too early starts.

Still, Olivia Potter couldn't complain. She was, for once, doing well for herself. Against the odds. At twenty-one, she was, yes, still alive. That was always a bonus. She was also, contrary to most expectations of her becoming an Auror, in medical school. A muggle one at that. Ivy league. Harvard medical school, to be precise.

_Ha. Look at that aunt Petunia. I'm in medical school, one of the best in the world, while Dudley's flipping burgers. Bet that sits like bile in your throat. _

She had worked for it. Hard. Getting her scholarship, when her muggle school records had stopped when she was eleven, had been no easy feat. So many exams, trials, hoops to jump through, just to catch up. Of course, Hermione, her best friend, had helped. She knew how to make a schedule as tight as a nun's knees, and before she knew it, Olivia was applying and, funnily, they had accepted her. Full scholarship and all.

Olivia was still sure one day, soon, they would tell her they made a mistake.

However, while it lasted, she was going to enjoy it. After the war, Olivia hadn't known what to do with herself. She had never thought she would get that far, live that long, actually win, and so, faced with the possibility of having a real future, she had been stumped. What did people do with their lives?

Indubitably, she knew what everyone had wanted her to do with hers. They had made that abundantly clear. So many voices, all with an opinion, all thinking they knew best, all vying to sway Olivia to seeing things their way. Never hers. Theirs.

Some wanted her to fold into the ministry, use her name and face for political clout. Perhaps become an advocate, activist or politician too. Most expected her to follow so many before her and join the Auror department. Maybe even become an Unspeakable. However, all, as Arthur Weasley would say, had expected her to, in some form or shape, carry on the good fight.

The truth was, she was sick of fighting. In all shapes. In all forms. In all shades.

There was too much of it. Everywhere. Olivia, herself, had been fighting since she was eleven. _Eleven_. A child. Even longer if her struggle against abuse with the Dursleys was counted. At some point, no matter how far along, enough was just enough. She was tired. So bloody tired.

Now, healing, helping, that seemed honourable. Doing so for children seemed even more so.

At first, she had thought, of course she had, of going into wizarding healing. St Mungo's was always looking for apprentices. Yet, it didn't feel right. England, as much as Olivia loved her home, had spent her childhood and most of her teenage years fighting to see it free, felt wrong. No. Not wrong. The _memories_ had felt wrong.

Too many bad ones. Too many lost loved ones. Too many ghosts. Olivia needed a fresh start. Away. Somewhere she could make memories not tainted by war, or death, or blood. Preferable somewhere with actual sunshine. They said America was the land of opportunities. Therefore, paint her red, white and blue, dot some stars on her forehead, and let her have some of that milk and honey.

After she obtained her scholarship, everything just fell into place. She secured a dorm room in Vanderbilt Hall. Packed her things up. Promised to keep in touch with the Weasley's, her adored second family, and she was off, sailing across the Atlantic ocean. Well, apparating more like, but you get her drift.

Thankfully, she wasn't alone in her great adventure for greener pastures.

Hermione had applied right alongside Olivia, receiving her acceptance letter only two days after Olivia. Her studious, more bookish friend was going a completely different route than her, aiming for a biochemistry research internship rather than Olivia's pediatrician residency, and they didn't have many lecture's together, but it was nice having a familiar face lurking around campus.

Finally leaving the bathroom, Olivia tugged down her top from getting caught underneath her breasts, stopping momentarily in front of her mirror to make sure she wasn't about to leave in her pajamas's… Again. Plain camisole, jeans and sneakers. Not a bad combo for a blind lucky dip. The hair, the birds nest that it was, nothing more could be done for it apart from a bun.

Slipping in next to her desk, she plucked up her empty backpack from its solitary resting place on her chair, swung it over her shoulder, snatched up the books she would need for morning lecture, and headed for her small door, fighting to get the key in the hole. Passing through into the hallway, Olivia tripped, barely managing to keep a hold of her balance, and her books, and a tad more of her dignity.

She really wasn't a morning person.

Glancing down at the threshold of her door, she spotted the culprit. A Letter. Large. Thick. Brown. Official looking. Someone must have posted it underneath the door crack. Had she forgotten to pay her water bill? No. She was almost anal about paying things on time. Debt wasn't something Olivia enjoyed. Then what-

The timer on her watch beeped at her. Shit. Five minutes till lecture.

No time.

Hunching down, Olivia kicked up the letter, caught it and flipped in onto her pile of books stacked in the crux of her right arm, slamming her dorm door shut. Halfway down and out of Vanderbilt hall, Olivia realised she still had her toothbrush in her mouth. Mother fucker.

Reluctantly, knowing she had no time to head back now, and rather not fancying having a moist, toothpaste sticky toothbrush bouncing around her backpack, where all her notes were going to be stashed, she threw it in the bin just inside reception, mentally reminding herself to pick another up on the way home tonight.

She was likely going to forget. She always forgot. This was her seventh fucking toothbrush this semester alone.

The air was cool and crisp when she got out. Fresh. Autumn. Lovely. Hermione might actually join her for her afternoon jog this evening. _Might. _Her best friend wasn't exactly the sporty type. Cutting across the green to save a minute or two, a buzzing took up from Olivia's jeans back pocket. Juggling her books, she eventually managed to wiggle it out, and used her shoulder to prop it to her ear. She didn't need to look to know who was on the other end.

"I know, I know. I'm running late… Again. I'm on my way right now, I swear. I should be there in five. Save me a seat?"

Hermione's voice, too clear, too cheery, and way too put together for this time of morning, answered back just as Olivia came bouldering up the steps of the main building, nodding greetings to some of her fellow students. Ernest, the janitor, and a squib Olivia had met in her time here, shook his head and chuckled at her. After a year, he was used to her antics, and her unfortunate tendency to be late, and therefore, running everywhere like a frantic rabbit.

"Don't worry, Doctor Lucas sent out an email postponing lecture for an hour. He has a meeting with the Dean. You better hurry up, though. I have your favourite right here. Iced vanilla latte with- "

"Cinnamon? You did get the cinnamon didn't you?"

Olivia could hear Hermione's laugh echo out from the other end, crackling slightly on the line.

"Do I look a rookie? Of course I got cinnamon. I've only known you for ten bloody years."

Olivia ducked around the corner, slewed to a halt to stop herself from ploughing straight into some poor soul trying to walk past her, danced around him, earning a bewildered frown in return, and searched down the wide, brightly lit hallway.

"Hey, turn around."

The girl Olivia could see resting by the wall at the far end swivelled, Hermione's bright, friendly smile lighting up her pale face when she spotted her trotting up. Hanging up, she crammed her phone back into her pocket, slung her arm around Hermione's shoulders and gave a warm hug, careful not to crush the two coffee cups between them. Pulling apart, Hermione offered out the left one. Olivia seized it as if it was pure gold.

To a medical student, coffee might as well have been.

"Cheers. You're an absolute star, Hermione. What would I do without you?"

Hermione scoffed, popping the lid and taking a sip of her own coffee. Black. No sugar. Olivia winced. The devils piss, she had called it once, and she stood by that statement whole-heartedly. Olivia had a sweet tooth a mile long, and refused to look at any coffee without at least two skulking in it.

"I don't know? Starve? Dehydrate?"

Olivia was about to tell her to leave off, she wasn't _completely_ hopeless, when Hermione glanced down, to her loaded arms, and spied the brown envelope. Frowning, Hermione nodded at it.

"What's that?"

Olivia shrugged, dropping her bag from her shoulder to her feet so she could begin to put her books away, handing over her drink to Hermione for safe keeping.

"Someone posted it through my dorm room door. It's likely just some newsletter. Or even those research papers on temporal lobe epilepsy I've been waiting for Dr Méndez to hand over. Did you know there's been trial operations on mice for-"

Hermione cut her off with a sharp shake of her curly, caramel curls.

"That return stamp is from Mexico. Sonora, in fact. If I'm not mistaken."

Slipping the last book into the dark recess of her bag with a muted thud, Olivia glanced down at the letter, flipping it back and forth.

"How do you know-… Never mind. It's you. You've probably read a few encyclopedias on post in America already. Save some for the rest of us, Mione."

Hermione, for a flash, looked affronted, frazzling in that singular way that was utterly, irrevocably _her. _Stiffening her spine, her nose shot straight into the air, a tiny spark of magic zapping by the curl dangling next to her ear, fizzing it into a puffy little knot.

"It was _one_. And I'll have you know it was highly interesting. It's amazing how different the American postal system is from back home. They don't-"

At Olivia's cocked brow, Hermione came to a puttering stop, clocking on to good-natured prod at the absolute menace she had been when they were younger. Blushing, Hermione playfully thumped her shoulder, chuckling as coffee sloshed up the side. However, soon Olivia's attention drifted back to the letter in her hand, smile slowly dying to a confused frown.

"Mexico? Sonora? I've never heard of it. Why would I get a letter from there?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to shrug haphazardly.

"Only one way to find out."

A tiny, minuscule really, slither of dread slunk up the back of Olivia's throat, pricking at the skin of the back of her neck. Surprises, any, had never gone well for her. _Never_. Yet, Tom was dead. The war was over. She was free. She had been for years now. In this sort of new world, what harm could a letter cause? Tearing open the letter, pulling out the thick wad of paper stapled together, polished off with an embossed, fancy looking, cover letter, Olivia began to flick through.

Olivia's world _shattered. _

And Hermione was left to watch as her friends face, normally so cheerful, light, open, transformed. Her startling green eyes began to blink rapidly behind her round glasses, her bronzed skin paling almost sickeningly so, as one page was flicked to another, and then another, and another. Faster and faster and faster.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Olivia didn't look up, consumed by the papers in her hand.

"I-I don't understand. What-"

Olivia flipped right back to the cover letter, eyes scanning as she grew still. So still.

"Ollie? Are you alright? Ollie? Speak to me, here. You look like you're about to faint."

Olivia was ashen now, ghostly so, drained, looking the worst Hermione had seen her look in years. Not since that awful day back in the Battle of Hogwarts when she had finally, and quite literally, revived herself from the dead. Slowly, as if she didn't quite know where she was, or what she had been doing, or really what her name was, Olivia pulled herself away from the letter and locked eyes with Hermione.

They looked wet. Tears.

"It's adoption records. _My _adoption records. There's-"

Hermione could see how violently Olivia's hand shook as she pulled the cover letter away, holding it out for her to take.

"There's a contact request."

* * *

**WOO or BOO?**

So, I recently read AlwaysEatTheRude21's fic for Mayans MC, and really, almost desperately lol, wanted to give it a shot myself. Obviously, mine is going to be very different, but I still hope you all like it! For those worried, you don't really have to have seen Mayans MC, but it would make everything a bit more nuanced if you did, because I will be doing my fic chiefly from Olivia's P.O.V, so we'll be introduced to that side of this fic through her and understand it as we go along, if that makes sense?

However, I do advise going to watch it for one simple fact. It's an awesome show! Lol

**Pairings: **Miguel/Emily. Olivia/Nestor (Eventually), Hermione/Coco.

**Warnings: **Organised crime. Drug trade. Cartels. Murder. Age gap between main pairing. (I'll add any more I can think of as I go along).


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO: BORN**

* * *

"And you're sure it won't affect my scholarship?"

Olivia asked for, what must have been, the twentieth time. Doctor Mendez, Ollie's pediatrician lecturer there at Harvard, and, if she was honest, her favourite muggle teacher she had ever come across, smiled indulgently from over the large expanse of his oak desk in his main office, shaking his salt and pepper hair with a jolt of his thin necked head.

"Due to your, let's say, unusual circumstance, the board have agreed to the month leave of absence you've requested to get this affair in order. On your official transcript it will be labelled as personal leave, however, not sick leave or bereavement, and when you apply for your residency, you might be asked to go in depth on the reason you took it in the interview, condoned or not. Nevertheless, nothing is affected. I assure you."

Olivia drooped in her seat opposite the aging doctor. She had put in for the time off only two days ago, and had thought, with how administration was, she wouldn't have heard back for at least a fortnight. Then, this morning, she awoke to an email sitting idle in her inbox, blinking away, asking her to visit Doctor Mendez's office as soon as possible about her request. She wasn't sure whether she was happy it was approved, or if she was dismayed it wasn't denied.

What Olivia did know was she wished she had more time.

Ever since opening that bloody letter, Olivia couldn't land on one emotion and stick to it. She was glad. Muddled. Angry. Rageful even. Bitter. Back to confused. Trapped in denial. A sudden and sharp slip back into fury. Everything and anything in between. It was giving her whiplash. It was taking her focus. Snatching her sleep. Steeling her appetite.

She needed space.

Space and time to… Figure this out. Decide on what she wanted, what she was feeling, to find the truth in this mess. She needed to get her head back in the game, before her grades started paying the price for her distraction, tossing and turning and overall mercurial mood. Doctor Mendez leant forward in his seat, holding his hand up, palm flat, fingers together in the universal sign of stop.

"However, I will tell you this, Olivia. As one of my best students and someone I sincerely wish to see succeed, a month of absence from medical school is a _long _time. You will be missing quite a few important lectures, clinics and outpatient consultations. That is a _lot_ of ground to make up for."

He reached over to his desk calendar, a cheery little thing filled with stock photos of puppies and kittens, flicked one month over, and quickly pointed, using a fountain pen, to the two lines he had boxed out in red, his looping squiggly handwriting reading 'fishing trip' scribbled across its face.

"Thankfully, your month of absence leads onto half semester break. So, should you need the extra two weeks above your month, you have it. After the extra two-week break, your lecture time drops significantly. So I would, if I was you, plan to use that wisely to cover the things you've missed while being away. If it helps, I can set you up an info pack on all you will miss and email it to you? And, as always, if you find yourself lagging too much, my door is always open should you need the extra help."

Olivia nodded.

"Thank you, Dr Mendez. Truly. I really appreciate it. I just-"

_I just need to do this. _Olivia couldn't bring herself to say it. She had not, since opening that letter, been able to verbally admit it. Oh, she could say she had received adoption papers through the post. She could ask the Medical School for time off, so she may go to said adoption agency for her appointment this weekend regarding the contact request recently filed. She could even bring herself to say that a man, somewhere, was claiming to be her father.

But to say _I _am adopted? _My _father wants to meet _me_? Everything I've ever thought I knew about _myself_ is, as it turns out, a lie?

No. me, myself and I comments were completely off limits to Olivia. It made everything personal. Real. Hermione, no doubt, would say she was distancing herself through dissociated speech in an attempt to stave off dealing with past trauma due to familial connections, facing abundant self-doubt and self esteem issues of feeling unworthy, and, as always when it came to Olivia, in a neurotic defence to the possibility of having anymore trauma inflicted upon her already scarred psyche, was dealing with a pessimistic outlook which concluded all would somehow end horribly wrong so she may as well distance herself prematurely to save skin in the following perceived oncoming blow-out.

Olivia would simply say she was feeling a tad apprehensive.

Over the rim of his tortoise shell horn-rimmed glasses, Mendez's pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a soft, almost grandfatherly, smile under that thick, stone-grey mustache. With thirty years of practice in child psychiatry under his slim belt, Olivia had never met a more perceptive and astute person before, and knew he likely saw, just as much as she did, all those swirling thoughts that were buzzing about her head like honeybees chaotically.

"I understand. Family is important. Now, good luck."

He stood up from his chair, the plush leather creaking, as he offered out his weathered, thin boned hand.

"And hurry back."

Olivia mirrored his actions, coming to a stand and taking up his hand, noting how paper thin his skin felt, as she shook it. Sharp. Firm. Up, down, let go.

"You won't even notice I'm gone."

Bending down to the side of the chair, Olivia picked up her handbag, a small, nodded once more to Dr Mendez and promptly slunk out his office door with a warm wave goodbye. Hermione was exactly where Olivia had left her. Inclined back on the wall facing the door, she heard the click of the handle closing, and kicked off, wandering over to stand next to Olivia.

"Did they approve?"

Olivia nodded as the two began to walk down the hall and out the building.

"They've given me thirty days leave but seen as break is coming up I have an extra two weeks on top of that. As long as I'm back sitting in my normal seat by December, everything should be fine."

Hermione grinned as she elbowed Olivia's side.

"Didn't I tell you? I thought they would. You haven't missed a single day in two years. Even that time you had your wisdom teeth pulled and came to lecture high as a bloody kite. I still think Richards has the recording of that. I must remember to get him to send it to me."

Olivia chuckled as she pushed through the exiting turnstile after swiping her ID on the card reader. Richards didn't. She'd stolen his phone a week later and deleted it, putting it back before he ever realised it was missing. She had found he also had a nearly alarming amount of pictures of turtles. Each to their own, she supposed.

Still, if Hermione _thought _she had embarrassing blackmail material on her, it was better to leave her thinking such, lest the damned witch went out and dug up some _real_ evidence. No. Hermione had far too many embarrassing anecdotes already, without actual video footage, to pass on to any possible future boyfriends, family, or father in laws for Olivia's comfort.

Just like that, the thought, along with the fresh air that brushed her face as she stepped outside, seemingly wafted away any and all trace of her jolly mood. Father in laws.

Fathers.

Coming to the bottom step of the stairs leading out of the entrance to the building behind her, Olivia came to a complete stop. Hermione carried on a step or two before she noticed her friend lagging, and turned to face her with a cocked brow arched high.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing? I mean, why now? How?"

Hermione's smile turned small and sad as she back tracked to her side.

"I don't know, Ollie. I can't answer that for you. I_ can_ say if you don't go, if you don't, at least, meet him, you'll always regret it. Family is what you've always wanted."

There were just so many questions, and Olivia was terrified of every single one of them. Why now? What had changed? What did he want? Was he a good person? What about her moth-… The woman listed as her mother on her original birth certificate, the one she had found in the adoption papers? This faceless Rosa García? The contact request had been in this… Man's name only, not hers. Was she dead? Alive? Well? Happy?

And why should Olivia care at all? They had put her up for adoption. Left her. There, sitting low in her gut, despite how much Olivia hated it herself, hated herself _for_ it, she couldn't stop the feeling of a sort of childish spite from taking root. They had abandoned her, put her up for adoption, and in turn, now that this man wanted to know, to meet, some small part of her wanted to return the favour. Stick her middle finger up and tell him to fuck off.

And she detested herself for it.

She wasn't this type of person. So petty. So unstable. So erratic. But she felt as if her world, right from under her feet, had shifted abruptly to the right and nothing was where it should be. Olivia dropped her bag at her feet and plonked down on the stairs, scrubbing at her face. That was the problem.

Olivia didn't know _who _she was anymore.

Even at her lowest point, an orphaned, abused, hungry kid in a cupboard, she had always had her name. Potter. Olivia _Potter_. And no one, Tom Riddle, Vernon, Bellatrix, Petunia, death itself, could take that from her. She was a Potter. But she wasn't, was she? Not by blood. Finally, she manged to pull her hands away from her face and looked back up to Hermione, her eyes almost frantic.

"Are we even sure those adoption papers were real?"

It was a very meagre shot at another round of rejection, even to Olivia's own ears. Hermione sighed and took a seat beside her on the cool step. It felt good to have someone close, someone she trusted explicitly, especially when Olivia was feeling so… Fragile, and raw, and unhinged. She felt as if she was made from a million stitches, all being stretched and pulled and ripped.

"Ollie, we had them checked. Three times. Muggle and wizarding. The Auror's all said the same. They're legit."

Olivia glanced out to the road before them, watching as people went by. All going about their business. A couple laughing, a woman with her arm looped through a goofy smiling man's elbow. A group of guys chatting about the last football, American football that is, match last night. One rather tall fellow with his nose stuck in a book, walking a mile a minute. Selfishly, Olivia wondered how they did it. How everything could be exactly the same as it was any other day, and yet so fucking different?

"You heard the prophecy, Mione. _Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh months dies. _How could that have been me? I only filled half of it. _Half_. And if that isn't true, if the prophecy meant nothing, then-"

Then all her pain, all her loss, meant nothing too, and Olivia couldn't stand that thought. She really couldn't. Perhaps that was why she couldn't admit it, couldn't say _she_ was adopted, why she had to get the papers checked at least three times before she would even consider that they could possibly be real.

If she wasn't a Potter, then what was she? Who was she?

Olivia didn't have the answer, and it petrified her. More than anything. Hermione, however, straightened, a glimmer Olivia knew all to well sparking in her eye. She always had the same look when she solved a rather difficult riddle or puzzle.

"I've thought about this already, actually. Obviously, Petunia's home protection against Voldemort still worked because Lily had adopted you, accepted you as her child, and that sort of love trumps blood, and as Lily's sister, blood related, Petunia inherited that protection when she took you in. A sort of quasi adoption in and of itself. However, the prophecy itself proved difficult to unravel, and then it hit me. The wording. It's always been a little strange, hasn't it? There was such a stress on the word _born_. The repetition of it, as if it was so important."

Hermione leant in close, voice hushing to a low murmur so bystander's wouldn't overhear.

"It's all in the definition. Born as the seventh month dies. That bit fits you. Your birthday has stayed the same, even with the adoption. Born to those who have thrice defied him, that was the real puzzle. And then it came to me. It's not the traditional _meaning_ of born."

Olivia's mouth propped open, tongue readying to argue, but Hermione's glower at, possibly, being interrupted while she was in full swing promptly had Olivia clamping her mouth shut.

"Born also means having a specific nationality. I.E English, or English-born or German-born. You, according to the adoption records, was born in Mexico. You had no English citizenship. And then Lily and James adopted you, practically handing over their nationality to you, making you have their nationality."

Hermione was practically bouncing in her seat, biting at the bit to have the right answer. For a second, Olivia thought she was going to shoot her hand into the air like when they were kinds, sitting in lessons, and wave it all about the place.

"Yet, the one I think most fits is its final definition. Born also means existing as a result, not to be confused with existing from the result of birth. For example, a doctors work is _born _of compassion. Now, if we take this definition to its clear end, it makes sense. Without Lily or James, without their sacrifice that night, you wouldn't exist _as_ you are. You're fight against Voldemort was _born _from the sacrifice of Lily and James Potter."

Hermione nodded to herself. So sure. So steady. Everything Olivia was not currently feeling.

"In a way, that night, they birthed you. They birthed you as, well, you as we know you. It was self-fulfilling. If Voldemort never attacked, if James or Lily had not adopted you, if they had not died that night the way they did, there would have been no prophecy. You, Olivia Potter, as the girl-who-lived to kill Voldemort, was _born_, metaphorically speaking, from Lily and James's death."

Olivia exhaled deeply, eyes slipping shut as her shoulders sagged like wilting flowers.

"I don't know whether that makes me feel better or worse, if I'm honest."

There really was no place to run. No way to hide. She was… She was adopted. Olivia Potter was adopted. It _hurt_. James and Lily, Remus and Sirius, they had all loved her so much, gave their lives, and adopted or not, Potter or not, whether the latter two knew or not, that love would never change. Olivia's love for them would never change.

That was _who_ she was.

She cared. She loved. She laughed. She was messy and late. She was sarcastic and dry. She ate ice-cream by the gallon and drank tequila like water. She was Olivia, and her last name didn't change who she was. Adoption didn't change who she was. It just put a new spin on her story. Hermione's hand, so warm and gentle, laid softly on her shoulder.

"It is what is it, Ollie. It's done with. There's no changing it. However, you do have a chance. You have a father out there. A father who wants to meet you. I know how much you've always wanted family. I know how much I would give to see _my_ father again. Don't waist this opportunity. You might not ever get another one."

Olivia winced as Hermione trailed off. Hermione had lost her parents in Australia, in a car accident, before either girl could retrieve them back after the war and right the obliviate spells. Those months had been hard on Hermione, really fucking hard, but Olivia had been there as much as she could.

Nevertheless, Hermione was right. Olivia should do this. She could do this. She _would _do this. Slapping her knees, Olivia hoisted herself up, grabbed Hermione's hand to help her stand too, giving a little squeeze to the fingers in silent gratitude. By Hermione's smile, she understood.

"You're right. You're always right. If I don't do this, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. Worst case scenario, I meet him, he's not what I expect, and I don't have to take it any further."

Scooping her bag up from the floor, grimacing at the cigarette butt that was now stuck on the bottom, flicking it off, Olivia carried on down the side of the road to the adjacent car park. Hermione clapped her on the back.

"That's right. You're in control, Ollie. Don't forget that. Take it as fast, or slow, as you want. And if something doesn't sit right, leave and don't look back. At least you've given him, and this, a chance. And, of course, I'll be right here waiting for you. Just one phone call and I'll come running, you hear?"

The pair stopped by a silver Ford pickup truck. It was a bit too big for Olivia's tastes, a bit of a boisterous beast, but it was the only type of car she could get her hands on in such short notice. It had also begrudged her to pay the extra underage driver's fee, for being under twenty-five, at the local car rental place, but again, beggars couldn't be choosey. She would have normally taken Sirius's bike, but like hell was she risking her beloved bike on a cross country drive.

Coming to a standstill at the door of the truck, Olivia rolled around and grabbed Hermione, squeezing her tight in a hug, whispering into her ear.

"I love you Hermione. I really fucking do."

Hermione hugged her back just as hard, her voice sounding a bit too croaky and wet.

"I love you too. Very much. Now, come on. If you don't leave now, you're not going to make it on time, and then you'll miss the appointment with the adoption agency this weekend."

Hermione sniffled as she pulled away. In truth, they both knew Olivia could just apparate. She'd gotten that licence years ago. However, driving seemed… Right. Just as having some leave from work and study did. It would give her more time to sort through her feelings, prepare herself, work through this like an adult. Plus, Olivia had never really had time off.

Ever.

If it wasn't trying to please or hide from the Dursley's, it was Hogwarts and fighting for her life, and if not, it was war and death, and now she had charity work set up back home she was still running, as well as having thrown herself headfirst into studying medicine that, really, Olivia needed time to just… Breathe. Breathe and _be_. To discover herself when she wasn't being run ragged or swept off her feet in this or that.

And she wanted to meet her father.

For better or for worst, she wanted to meet the man who had brought her into this world. With newfound confidence and courage, Olivia unlocked the truck door and slid in, slipping the ignition key home. Slamming the door shut, she rolled down the window, leant her head back out to Hermione, and grinned brightly.

"Look after Sirius's bike for me?"

Hermione knew she was bad at goodbyes. Absolutely horrid at them. This was as close as she was going to get to a see you soon. Taking a few steps back to stop Olivia from hitting her when she pulled out of the parking space, Hermione grinned back and nodded.

"There won't even be a lick of dirt on it, I promise. You have my number, so don't forget to ring when you get there so I know you're alright and made it in one piece. And, if you're still down there by the time break comes, I'll come to you, yeah? We can make a vacation of it."

Turning the key, the engine roared to life.

"Just bring tequila!"

However, before Olivia could pull out, Hermione's shout kept her foot on the break.

"Wait! I forgot! What's his name? Your father? You never did tell me?"

Olivia smiled. Not grinned. There was no sign of her normal sardonic twist, or dry keenness, the cattish slant of eye or tauntingly cocked brow. It was a soft thing, made of possibilities, hopes and petals caught in a summer breeze.

"Miguel Galindo."

And then Olivia was driving off, honking a farewell she couldn't bring herself to say, right out into the open road with the unseasonably hot sun shining bright upon her. Hermione stayed until she could see her no longer, murmuring a heartfelt good luck, before she too headed away from the deserted car park.

* * *

**YAY or NAY?**

So, I don't normally update so fast. However, inspiration for this fic was flowing fast! Neither do I normally stockpile chapters, but I found I've already pretty much written up to chapter four lol. So, here's a speedy chapter two! I hope you all like it!

A quick disclaimer, I have no bloody idea what goes on in medical school. None what-so-ever. I tried to research it, but it seems it's all a bit hushed lmao. I tried my best, and worse comes to worse, I can wave my creative licence around to mask my ignorance lol. Honestly, though, I doubt medical school would give a month of absence due to this reason, but, hey, it's a fic. A fic containing literal witches. I think I've got some leave-way.

I've also gone back and changed Olivia's goal from surgeon to pediatrician. Why? I was suddenly struck with the idea that it fit better for the type of character I'm trying to create here, and fits with what I think canon Harry would do if he went into medicine better than surgeon. It's a small change, but it is a change, and so I hope you don't mind.

All that said, I really do hope you liked the chapter! Thank you for all the follows and favourites! If you have a spare moment, please drop a review, they keep the little muses singing, and, fingers crossed, I'll see you guys soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE: BRING HER HOME**

* * *

_A few months previous…_

Emily Galindo, neé Thomas, was silent as she descended the stairs. Her bare feet didn't make so much as a thud against the lavish, well-polished granite. Neither did the extravagant oaken doors, stationed at the bottom, squeak or groan as she pushed them open, slipping through the crack before she blindly reached behind her to pull them closed. The sight that greeted her made Emily smile from ear to ear.

Miguel Galindo, her husband of half a decade, was sitting behind his office desk. Well, sitting wasn't quite right, was it? In that plush leather chair, he slumped, head painfully propped at an awkward angle, pristine white shirt collar buttons popped open, sleeves rolled to his elbow, and there, embraced in his arms, on his chest, was their year-old son, Cristobal, as sound asleep as his father.

At the clack of the door clicking shut, Miguel pulled Cristobal closer, hand rising to cradle the back of their son's head, awakening, and there, wrapped around his fingers, as Emily had seen a thousand times before, was a tatty yellow ribbon, half bleached white from continuous rubbing. Emily had seen Miguel fiddle with it before, when he was having a rather rough day, or night, or when his thoughts would carry him off to far flung places even Emily had trouble reaching.

"Miguel?"

She gently coaxed as his coffee eyes fluttered open, shooting straight to the door before he relaxed upon seeing her blonde hair shimmering in the rising sunlight. Yawning, and cautious of waking Cristobal, Miguel shifted up, so that he was sitting rather than drooped over.

"Mi amor, what are you doing up so late?"

His voice was groggy, coarse with sleep, and it only made Emily smile wider as she walked over. Today, the 31st July, ever since she had known Miguel, was a… Odd day for him. Her normally suave, witty husband became… Reserved. Quiet. Withdrawn. Contemplative with a flavour of despondency. Emily had never pushed him on it, she had never seen the reason to. He knew she was there, and he could come to her when he needed to. Until then, on times like this, she simply sat with him.

"It's seven in the morning, Miguel. Have you spent all night in here?"

Miguel sighed, gently handing over Cristobal as Emily bent down. Once her still slumbering son was in her arms, she pottered back around the desk and took a comfy chair opposite.

"It would appear so."

He grumbled, and Emily tried to restrain her laugh into a smooth chuckle. Cristobal was a complete nightmare if he was disturbed when sleeping, and she would rather not face two cranky Galindo's so early in the morning. Galindo's and lack of sleep normally equated to mayhem. God forbid, she didn't think the house would survive.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. I am-"

Emily shot him a sharp look.

"You promised, Miguel. No more secrets. Not after-"

_Not after their son had been taken. _Abducted. Kidnapped. Right out of her own arms.

You see, Emily would normally not push him, not on today, and she would normally try to wait until Miguel came to her. But that was _normally. _Now she understood. Their lives were not normal, they were not normal people, and pretending it was, pretending they were, was _perilous._ Miguel, her husband, was a feared and dangerous cartel leader. All this wealth, all this money, it came from blood taken and blood given.

A month ago, that blood had nearly been her sweet son, Cristobal. Los Olvidados, a group of organised radicals, had cornered her in the fucking desert, on the way home, took her son from her reaching arms, and used her son's safety to bully Miguel into accepting a deal to make them partners. Only upon the acceptance of this, from Miguel personally, with an oath of no further retribution, was her son finally returned to her.

But those weeks he was gone? Those were the worst weeks of her life.

When Emily thought she would never get her son back, unless it was in a coffin too small, she had realised how hazardous it was for her to keep on pretending Miguel was any less than who he was, head of a cartel, and as his wife, she could not carry on blind. Not if she wished to see her family in one piece at the end of the long day.

So, Emily threw herself into Miguel's darker world. The one outside legal work, real estate and industrialization projects surrounding Santo Padre. The one outside this comfy expensive manor in Sonora, lavish restaurant meals and picturesque life sprung out from a vogue magazine. She learned the rules. She learned the players. And she promised she would never be caught blind again.

This… This day of mourning with no tangible reason, not to Emily at least, was a blind spot. A blind spot another radical group, another Los Olvidados could exploit. Again. Something she couldn't afford. Not any longer. So, she held true. She pushed. It felt wrong, inexplicably wrong, and perhaps she was being a touch paranoid, but she had to know. No more secrets.

That was the promise.

Miguel sighed, going to rub tiredly at his eyes, when he stalled, eyeing the ribbon left forgotten in his fingers. For a long while he was silent, sat there, staring at a yellow ribbon. For a brief flash, Emily wanted to storm over, snatch it right out his hands and demand he look at her. Speak to her. Do… Something.

She got her wish when his fist clenched around the buttercup yellow satin, and he pushed out from the chair, strolling to the front of his large desk to prop himself against the rim, long legs crossed at the ankle. The morning light streaked silver flecks in his neatly trimmed beard, though his black curls, always so deftly combed back, stayed their true ebony. At thirty-seven, he didn't look a day over ten years younger than that.

"Cristobal-… When he was taken-… Los Olvidados-… It was my fault."

Emily stiffened in her seat.

"They were terrorists, Miguel. Terrorists. It wasn't-"

"I have another child. Today is her birthday. She'd be twenty-one today."

Emily froze, completely, her fingers which had been stroking through Cristobal's hair faltering around a brown curl, tugging a bit too harsh as her son grumbled in his sleep, but thankfully stayed slumbering. She blinked. And blinked some more. And some more. When she replied, her voice didn't sound like her own. It was drawn out, long, eerily precise and anesthetized.

"Miguel, what are you saying?"

Miguel pushed off from the desk, heading towards the glass cabinet to the side, where Emily knew he kept the good whiskey, before he changed his mind and seemed to head for the shelves of books on the far wall, and again, switched back around to the whiskey. Trapped. Pacing.

Right then, he was in full movement, fingers thumbing ribbon, feet marching, and Emily could only watch. This conversation to be, whatever thoughts were spinning like a pulsar star in that magnificent mind of his, was close to his heart. Extremely so. He only ever became this animated when the subject was so close to home, about his mother, Dita, herself and Cristobal.

"I was young. Too young. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what I was giving up. I didn't realize-"

"Miguel!"

Emily cut across abruptly. Taking in a deep breath, she tried again.

"Start from the beginning."

Because Emily sure as hell didn't know what the fuck was going on. Miguel glanced at her, searched her face, looking for what? Emily didn't know. She hoped he was looking for acceptance. Perhaps unconditional love. Maybe a sign that there would be no judgement, come what may. Emily knew all too well looking for those signs in _his _face when she told him of her first pregnancy.

Her abortion.

She too had been too young. Barely applying for college. She too had been scared and alone. Her boyfriend, Ezekiel Reyes, was in prison, for murder, he had killed and shot a fucking cop, and she had just gotten into law school, estranged from her own parents, and pregnancy… She had done what she thought was right at the time, and Emily would never change her mind on that.

Nevertheless, still, sometimes… What if? What if she didn't take that road? Would she still have met Miguel? Had her precious son, Cristobal? Would she be here, right now? Or would her life be worse? Better? Those what if's barely crossed her mind, but she would be lying if she said she never considered the possibilities, even eight years later.

And when she had finally managed to tell Miguel, let go of what seemed to be her darkest secret, he had not judged her. Condemned her. He had accepted her, her past, and loved her with no strings. True love. Emily could do the same for him. She _would _do the same for him. So, yes, while hearing your husband of five years has another child is a shock, and yes, she did feel anger, a strange sort of betrayal that had no place, she stubbornly pushed through it all to grasp and cling at the flaring ball of love she had for Miguel.

Because that is what family did.

Miguel strolled over to a chair beside her and dragged it over, close, so close, to her front, so he could be face to face, eye to eye, before he took a seat. He propped his elbows against his bent knees and rubbed at his neck, outwardly trying to gather what little sense and wit he could. Emily, on any other occasion, would have found this funny. Her usually awfully droll husband so lost for words. Now? Now she only felt compassion.

"I was sixteen. Young. Arrogant. I thought I understood the world already. I thought I had everything planned out and squared away."

Miguel gave a humourless chuckle, reminding Emily of cold winds blowing through dying trees in Fall. She hated it, that dead little noise. She never wanted to hear it slip out his lips again.

"That couldn't have been further from the truth. The girl I was with at the time, a high school sweetheart… She fell pregnant. Her name was Rosa."

Emily tried to process this information. She found that bitter bite of anger and betrayal that she first felt melt away. It had been so long ago, long before they had met, and really, she should have clocked on when Miguel said she, this child, would be twenty-one today, not a child any longer, but the news that there _was_ another child had sort of short circuited her brain.

"Rosa came from a very religious family. When Padre found out-"

Miguel stopped, a dark shadow falling across his face, there and then gone, as he schooled his features with years of practice. Snap. Changed. Emily was only sure she had caught it because of how well she knew him, sometimes irritatingly so to Miguel, and how apt she had become at reading those little micro expressions of his.

"Well, teen parenthood did not fit into the plan padre or madre had for me. _For the Galindo legacy_. Yet, her family refused to speak to mine if they so much as mentioned an abortion. Before I knew it, before I could really process the whole thing myself, they had gone and visited the girls family and the adoption agency was involved."

Miguel shook his head, his black curls falling chaotically across his forehead, and it was only then Emily noticed how messy his typically immaculate hair looked. As if he had spent all night running his fingers through it.

"They told me it was for the _best. _That I couldn't possibly know what I was getting into. That my life would be _ruined_. There was nothing I could do to fight it. I was underage, all the adoption agency needed was my parents signatures. Even if they considered what I wanted, if I had a legal foothold, padre would have found a way around it, shipped the child off somewhere I could never reach… Or worse. So many voices, all talking at the same time, and I was young and confused and before I could do anything, before I could run with her as I had been planning… She was gone. No one would tell me anything afterwards, no matter how much shouted or threatened… She was just gone."

His voice dropped low, deep, filled with emotions Emily could never name but felt bottomlessly inside, blistering at her sternum like battery acid poured into a weeping wound. Old pain never given the chance to heal.

"I only saw the child once. A little girl. Right after she was born. I-… I gave her the name Olivia, after her grandmother, but I don't know whether the adoption agency changed it or-"

Miguel held the ribbon up, out, towards her, fluttering in the small space between them.

"This is all I took from that day. A loose ribbon from her birthing blanket. No one knew I took it. But I had to have something. _Anything_. Just to know it was real."

Emily shifted to the edge of her seat, knees knocking knees. She didn't know why, but the contact helped balance her, bring a sort of comfort Emily could only ever remember getting from her grandfather's hugs. Safe. Warmth. Home. She thought, perhaps, Miguel felt it too when his knees didn't move to make room for her, but pressed in, enclosing around her own. Interlocked. Her and him. Him and her. Family. One.

"Oh, Miguel-"

There was pity in her voice, she could hear it ringing in her own ears, and that was a mistake. Miguel wasn't looking for pity. Compassion. Empathy. He never was. At that moment, he wanted her to feel what _he_ was feeling. Self-hatred. Anger. Blame. He wanted a mirror to his own crippling conscious. Emily refused to give it to him.

"Don't you see? Mi amor, you were here. You saw how madre was so quick to have me sacrifice Cristobal to save face in front of Los Olvidados. But I didn't. Not in the end. I didn't give up on my son. I refused to put my child below the Galindo legacy. I fought for him. I went to war. Not like I gave up on my little girl…"

He shook his head again, trying to clear it from ghosts, Emily knew.

"It was penance. The abduction of my son was a sign. I gave up so easily on her, god was proving a point. He wanted to show me how I failed all those years ago. I gave her up, mi amor. Just like that. I gave her up and I-"

Miguel choked up, and Emily broke down with him. When Cristobal had first been taken, Miguel had been all to willing to go along with the lies of Dita and Devante, his right-hand man who was no longer on this earth. They had told him to let Cristobal go, to consolidate the reputation of the Galindo cartel to never negotiated, they fed him stories of his own brother, a Cristobal from another time, who had fallen to the same fate and Dita, as Emily once thought she might have to, had to move on.

It had been lies.

Cristobal, her own sons namesake, had died of pneumonia. There had been no abduction for him. No ransom. He had died in hospital of complications. Still, for a turn, before they found the old hospital records stashed in Miguel's father's belongings, he had bought it. Miguel had refused to meet Los Olvidados. He had refused to communicate with them. In fact, he had hunted them. Swore to annihilate them. Provoked them viciously with public shows of vengeance.

Emily had half hated Miguel those days, before he realised he couldn't abandon his son, would pay whatever it took to have him back, no matter what had happened to his father and brother once upon a time, that his anger was best aimed at something deserving. Devante. However, now… Now she thought she perhaps understood his reasoning and it all made a sort of tragic sense. To lose a child to the impression of the Galindo legacy hadn't been a new situation for him. Repetition creates numbness.

He had done what he had done all those years ago. Gave it all for the name and the family. Only, now, here with her and their son, he had come to realise giving all to the name and family would only work if you still had family around you at the end of the day. Maybe, just maybe, that was why this 31st July was tougher and harsher than the ones previous, why he was telling her all this now.

In regaining his son, in not giving up, he had come to understand what he really had let be taken from him all those years ago. And he wanted that back. He wanted to go back and fight harder. He wanted his daughter back. Emily could see it written out across his face, in the tight dip of his mouth, the mist of his eyes, the depressed pull of his brows. He was being eaten by it from the inside out. While that was impossible, to go back and change anything, what done was done, the future was a wonderous, brilliant thing. It was full of chances and possibilities.

Opportunities, in his melancholy, Miguel might not be able to see, but prospects Emily could perceive all too clearly. Emily unfurled one arm from Cristobal and stretched over, placing her hand on his arm and squeezed tightly. Immediately, he scooped the appendage up, kissing her knuckles, refusing to let go as he hunched over it almost as if he was receiving a blessing from a queen.

"Or, perhaps, as with Cristobal, you were shown it is _never_ too late to fight."

Miguel glanced up from the crest of her knuckles.

"She was adopted, not like my own pre-"

No. That wasn't the right thing to say. It was different. Even if… Even if she sometimes wished to go back and make another choice that day, she couldn't, and now the future had no possibilities for her to change that. Miguel's still did. Like her, when Cristobal had first been taken, Emily had drowned in grief and blame, she too thinking the abduction of her son was divine punishment for the choices she had made all those years ago.

Karma.

But it wasn't. It was just dejection speaking demons into her ear, as it was doing to Miguel now. In a way, as bad as it sounded, Emily was… Appreciative, in a certain light, that this had happened. Having her son taken showed her exactly how far she would go for her children, her family. How strong she could be. How strong she _needed _to be to live in this otherworld with Miguel and their child. It showed her how to fight as hard as she could. It showed her it was never too late to fight. Miguel, it seemed, was learning this too, and in learning that, he was realising he still had a chance to fix this.

"You have a chance, Miguel. She's out there somewhere. _Find her._"

Miguel pulled back an inch. A tiny fraction.

"But what if she wants nothing to do with me and-"

"Then you gave it a go. Miguel… She's sangre. Familia. _You_ were the one who taught me how important that is."

This was eating him. Devouring him. Slowly. Emily could tell now. Especially since she knew, finally, what that ribbon meant, what it represented to Miguel. All those times she had seen him holding it, twisting it, stroking it, _this_, the loss of his child had been playing silently on his mind, at the back, lurking. Taking. Piercing.

Emily had been wrong. Miguel wasn't looking for a mirror to shoot blame back at himself. He had buckets enough of that himself. He wasn't, even now with rejections and denials coming hot and fast, fighting it, the idea of finding his daughter, really. He just wanted someone outside his own head to tell him it was okay, that it was okay to feel the way he felt, to tell him to do what he wanted and go find her.

"And you? How would you feel?"

Emily smiled glowingly, as bright as the morning sun rising high in the sky just outside their little bubble.

"She's a part of you, Miguel, and I love you. All of you. I will love her too."

And it was true. Emily sincerely thought there was nothing, nothing at all, that Miguel could tell her to make her love him less. She had married this man knowing exactly who he was, what he did for a living, running the biggest drug trade in Mexico, knowing how much blood he had on his hands, how much he would still dip himself into to protect what was his, and she had not batted an eye.

Perhaps that said something more about _her_ than him.

Nevertheless, this changed nothing, and she highly doubted anything, if this didn't, would. They were family, and even through the hardest moments, family stuck true. If this is what Miguel needed, then she would be right by him waving his banner for all to see. And, slowly, perhaps a small part of her thought that she too was getting a second chance, a shot at the what if she thought she never would have. In fact… She was excited.

"Little Cristobal will have a sibling. This house could always do with more ladies in it. Too much testosterone, we need more sense to balance it out. Oh, I could take her shopping and-"

Then he was kissing her. Longingly. Lovingly. When he dragged himself away from her lips, unhurriedly, his forehead rested against her own, and it was just them, Miguel, Emily, little Cristobal, and an old yellow ribbon. No cartel. No Los Olvidados. No worries. No cares. Just family.

"Te amo."

Emily smiled softly as she reached up with her free hand to stroke gently at his cheek, echoing back.

"Te amo."

Drawing further away, Emily locked eyes with him.

"She's a Galindo, Miguel. And Galindo's never do well without family or home. Bring her _home_."

That was all he needed. Emily's acceptance. Miguel was up and over at his desk in a sweep, plucking up the phone, smashing in numbers, speaking in a rushing splash of Spanish. Emily grinned, cuddled down into the comfy chair, and embraced Cristobal close. No.

There was nothing more important than family.

* * *

**Any good? **

This chapter took a little while longer because, as in the show Mayans MC, Emily did have an abortion and I, obviously, had to touch on that subject and the emotions that can bring, yet I really wanted to do it as respectively as I could. I hope I succeeded.

I also found it necessary to touch base quickly with Miguel and Emily, to not only get our first hint of them, but to get some grounding before Olivia and all her chaos comes storming in lmao. I know, especially if you haven't watched the show, some of the things brought up this chapter might be a tad confusing, I tried to incorporate it as best as I could for those who wouldn't know what happened on Mayans, but it will also be delved in deeper the longer we go on.

We'll be back with Olivia soon, and our boy Nestor's coming along for the ride!

Well, there we go, chapter three! I really do hope you all have enjoyed this, as I really did when writing it! Thank you all for the lovely reviews, favourites and follows! If you can, make sure to drop a review to let me know if this insanity is actually hitting any marks lol. See you again soon!


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